Stigma
by Jad fic
Summary: Harry's indifferent to the pain, and it's pissing Draco off; so Bellatrix attempts to get his attention. Harry's POV. One-shot, AU after HBP. WARNING: Non-con & mildly implied incest.


Author's Notes: This was written as a response to a poll I ran on my personal LJ almost four years ago. The pairing and two story elements (ink and a handgun) were chosen via poll results, and this is the one-shot I produced. Though I'm usually not a fan of non-con, I'm quite fond of this one. I think it works. Feedback (positive or negative, so long as it's constructive) on this piece is very much appreciated.

**STIGMA**

_From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate._  
– Socrates

'You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this, Potter.'

Harry dimly notes the glee in Draco Malfoy's voice as he tells him this. Harry doesn't even give him the consideration of meeting his gaze. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on the old stain in the carpet—a heavily ornamented Persian, though one can hardly tell beneath the layers of dust and use it's suffering under; the dark brown discolouration almost blends in with the deep red and black of the textile.

This show of insouciance serves only to infuriate Malfoy further; Harry has to admit that his left hook hits like a fucking Bludger, and the back of his head smacks into the wooden post of the bed with enough force to make bright spots appear in his vision. The inside of his lip is bleeding profusely, the metallic flavour mixing with the bittersweet, cloying taste of the ink already in his mouth—earlier, Malfoy had seized every available loose object in the room and proceeded to use Harry for target practice. Several smashed inkbottles later, Harry's hair is saturated with the dark, viscid solution, and it runs down his neck and into his collar, where he can still feel it slowly oozing down his upper arms under his sleeves.

Harry lifts his chin and straightens his shoulders, his wrists flexing as he sits up again. Rope's a rather crude method of restraining him, he thinks, but convenient in this case, where Malfoy would rather use his fists as opposed to his wand as a method of persecution. Wrists bound behind his back to the bedpost, Harry is forced to sit poised on the edge of the mattress. It's malodorous and uncomfortable, stripped of any covering, revealing ancient white fabric that's beginning to yellow with age around the still-moist droplets of ink staining the surface.

It's Harry's own fault he's in this situation. Snape tried to tell him—like Snape always tries to tell him—that what he wanted to do was reckless, stupid, and in all other ways solid evidence of his arrogance. And Harry—like he always does—ignored the warning and went through with it anyway. Only this time, he won't be able to rub it in Snape's face—like he always has—that he made it back safe and sound. Dolohov and Wormtail were supposed to be alone; Harry had not counted on Malfoy being there, too. Taking on two Death Eaters is easy enough for him; taking on two Death Eaters with a third lying in wait is another thing entirely, especially when this third is particularly well-versed on his abilities, having been his antagonist for—hell, how many years? Including their time at Hogwarts... ten, almost eleven now?

Malfoy takes a fistful of his hair and forces him to look up, smacking the back of his head into the post again. Harry would kick him, but Malfoy's too smart for that, and has his foot jammed painfully into the crevice between Harry's legs, holding his hips down. The heel of his boot is incredibly painful, but it mixes in with the pain from the shattered glass, heavy bruises, and post-effects of the Cruciatus Curse—something Malfoy has used sparingly, and Harry knows why; Voldemort wants Harry alive and cognizant when he arrives, so he can tear the sanity from him himself. No, Malfoy isn't important enough to get to kill Harry Potter—but they had a few hours, Malfoy had told him, so why not spend the time _bonding?_ For old times' sake.

Harry averts his eyes, earning a snarl from Malfoy, who seems to be of the opinion that he's worthy of Harry's attention. Harry doesn't care; this is not the first time he's been in Death Eater custody since the graveyard all those years ago. He's been captured before, tortured before, threatened with death and worse, he's suffered the agitation of waiting for Voldemort to come and kill him. And Harry has always got away, because Voldemort is determined to kill Harry himself, a weakness that has allowed Harry to always get lucky, like The Boy Who Lived tends to, and escape before the Dark Lord arrives. Harry's never sure if he's going to escape before it happens, and hell, for all he knows, this time might actually be when his luck runs out and Voldemort gives him what's coming to him, but even so, for Harry the whole routine of tribulation and impending doom is starting to get old.

The heel on his groin twists, and Harry bites his tongue to save himself from hissing. He isn't going to give Malfoy a reaction, because that's what he wants, and Harry has never given Malfoy what he wants—he doesn't intend to start now. He winces slightly, involuntarily, as Malfoy spits on him, thrusting his heel in hard one more time before releasing Harry's head and stalking away.

Malfoy starts pacing the room, hands intertwined behind his back, while Harry watches him indifferently, trying to ignore the dull ache in the back of his head. There's a nasty cut on his forearm that the ink has begun seeping into; he can feel it invading the open wound and it stings like a bitch, but he forcibly ignores it. It's almost as bad as the ink still in his mouth; he's tried spitting it out, but ink has a nasty habit of sticking to and soaking into everything, including tongues, and Harry's mouth tastes like he's been chewing on handfuls of rose petals mixed with old coins.

The door opens suddenly, and Malfoy stops mid-pace just as Harry looks up and sees a tall, cloaked figure enter the room. The door slams closed behind the woman as she sweeps the hood off her head, striding right up to Malfoy and pressing herself flush up against him. Harry watches in mingled surprise and disgust as she seizes her nephew by the jaw and osculates him.

Oh, lovely, Harry thinks, deadpan. Bellatrix Lestrange, the Queen of Cruciation and someone at whose hands Harry has suffered before; he sighs inwardly at the thought of what is undoubtedly to come. Meanwhile, Bellatrix is kissing Malfoy in a way no aunt should ever be kissing her nephew, but Harry supposes that this shouldn't really surprise him, considering everything else he knows about her.

Malfoy smirks into the kiss, grasping the side of her jaw with one hand while the other takes her hip and pulls her against him. Insanity and incest run hand-in-hand in most pure-blood families, Harry already knows this, but he's never seen such an open display of it before, and he rolls his eyes and looks away, thankful at least that this is distracting them from adding to his injuries. The longer they snog, the longer he has to recover from Malfoy's abuse of the last hour and a half.

For lack of anything better to do, Harry counts the minutes that pass in near silence; Bellatrix surfaces long enough to murmur something unintelligible to Malfoy, and Harry hears a low, short laugh in reply. It's not until he sees the shadows on the far wall move that he realises Bellatrix is coming towards him, and then the hard point of her wand presses painfully into his Adam's apple as she takes him by the chin and forces him to face her.

'Oh, you've made a mess of him, haven't you?' Bellatrix murmurs.

She's leaning down to peer at him, face close to his, her jaw stained with ink from Malfoy's hand, which was dirtied when he pulled on Harry's hair earlier on. She smells of some pungent combination of perfume and liquor, and a hint of ash that suggests recent travel via Floo. Removing her hand from his chin, she pulls off his glasses, carelessly crushing them in her fist before tossing them aside—not that they had been much use anyway, having been cracked and stained with dried ink and blood.

'Little baby Potter,' she coos, running her wand down his throat, pressing the tip in uncomfortably hard; the pressure is strong enough that had it been a knife, she'd have carved right through to his spine. Harry graces her with the same treatment he's been giving Malfoy, and looks at the blurry image of the fireplace over her shoulder. He can see Malfoy's shadow, standing just off to the side, watching them, and Harry fixes his attention on this and manages to refrain from responding as the tip of her wand suddenly becomes as hot as a branding iron, burning a trail down towards his collarbone.

'Bastard's been like that all night.' Harry can hear Malfoy's drawl to his right, and watches his shadow as it moves closer, until the voice is just beside his ear; Harry continues to look at the hearth. 'Think you're a fucking tough cunt, do you? We'll see how bloody tough you are when _He_ gets here.'

Harry feels little concern at these words; he knows this is foolish, because if and when Voldemort does arrive to kill him, he knows that it won't be pretty. But the pain and threats have become so wearisome that it's all he can do to stop himself from laughing at Malfoy, taunting him, and he only manages to resist because although momentarily gratifying, it would no doubt incite Malfoy to invent new ways to inflict pain, and while the pain may be tolerable, Harry is no masochist and thinks he has lost quite enough blood already.

'You think you're a big man, now, don't you?' Bellatrix sneers, laughing. Her wand comes back to rest on his throat, etching new burns into the delicate skin there. 'Little baby Potter's all grown up.'

Harry barely blinks. He doesn't even sigh, though he feels the urge to. No, she won't get anything from him—neither will Malfoy, nor will Voldemort. If he's going to suffer this—even if he's going to die—then he's going to do it with his dignity intact. He's promised himself that from day one.

'Draco, darling,' she purrs, eyes still on Harry. 'Be a good boy and wait downstairs.'

Harry doesn't have to look at Malfoy to see him tense; the narrow look he gives her, eyes dark with suspicion, jealousy, perhaps, at being left out, and anger at being addressed as a child. It's the anger and jealousy Harry knows well, from when he was only fifteen and forced out of the loop by Dumbledore, and he feels a deep satisfaction at knowing that Malfoy is suffering it. But there's also trepidation now, as he wonders why Bellatrix wants Harry to herself. The woman's cruelty knows no bounds; she loves to inflict pain, on Harry above all, and enjoys reminding him of all the lives she's ruined and destroyed to hurt him, and then hurting him some more.

In response to Malfoy's hesitation, Bellatrix's eyes leave Harry, turning to her nephew as she straightens up. 'Downstairs, Draco,' she repeats, voice firm. 'And tell my dear Rodolphus and Rabastan that they're not to disturb us.' She smirks down at Harry. 'Mr Potter and I have _much_ to catch up on.'

It's with a hard look at her, then Harry, that Malfoy finally departs, and Harry can hear him thumping down the hall, taking out his temper on the walls and floor as he heads downstairs. If Rodolphus and his brother are here, they are likely in the Lestranges' home, which as far as he remembers is in West Sussex; this is information vital to Harry if and when he manages to escape their hold, and he stores it away.

'You've put him in a fine mood,' she says, amused, and with a sweep of her wand the candles are extinguished, leaving only the small fire in the hearth to light the room. Harry inhales slowly and watches the fire, studying the intricate patterns of the glowing embers, watching sparks spit and fly into the air around the orange flame. 'Now, Harry Potter, we shall see if I can get your _full_ attention.'

Harry isn't sure what she means, but doesn't really care either, and keeps his eyes on the fire, lids half-closed to express his complete disinterest in her and anything she plans to do to him. After a while, all pain blends together and becomes the same dull ache in the back of his mind, an ache he has gotten extraordinarily good at ignoring. Even under the Cruciatus Curse he rarely screams anymore; the effects of the curse could still drive him insane, of course, but he can withhold the urge to cry out as well as he can ignore the beatings, the threats, and every other technique they care to employ against him.

Bellatrix walks up to him, and in his peripheral vision, he can discern some details; she's about the same age as Arthur, he thinks, with faint lines just beginning to appear in her otherwise attractive face—at least, it's attractive until you see the look in her eyes, and the nasty sneer her lips form. She's wearing what appear to be silk robes, black like her hair, which wisps haphazardly around her pale, gaunt face, framing high cheekbones, a strong chin and familiar pale eyes—Harry can see traces of Sirius in her face, and he hates her for it.

She stands between his legs, which Malfoy has left carelessly sprawled apart, and touches Harry's forehead with her hand. Harry would jerk away, but that is what she wants; he holds still as her fingers caress his hairline, as she runs her index finger to his scar, tracing it with the sharp edge of a nail. It stings, almost as much as the ink seeping into the wound on his forearm stings, but he resists the urge to flinch.

Clicking her tongue in disapproval, she removes her hand, shifting it to his collar, and he feels her messing with the fabric there. Hm, this is different. Usually it's a slap in the face and hop-to with the Cruciatusing. Not that he's complaining about the delay, but there's something disquieting about the way she's unfastening the top half of his shirt, growing impatient and finally yanking hard, tearing the rest away. Maybe today it'll be more burning, which she seems to be favouring; perhaps she wants to add more scars to his chest. But, no, oddly enough, she tucks her wand behind her ear and sits on the bed beside him. She runs one finger down his bare chest, letting the nail dig in just enough to bite the skin, leaving a pink mark in its wake.

Her finger stops at his belt. Then, to his utter chagrin, she begins to undo the clasp.

Harry has no idea what to say to this. What the fuck do you think you're doing comes to mind, but that would be giving her a reaction, which he is determined not to do. This is obviously some new ploy of hers to get something out of him; well, she can get stuffed, as far as Harry's concerned. He's more interested in the fact that the ink running down his arms is now beginning to pool around the edges of the rope binding his wrists; when she pulls his belt open, he uses the excuse to shift, and gives his wrists a tug. The rope holds tight, but it's slipperier than before, and if more ink runs down, then maybe...

Harry's mind is forcibly yanked away from thoughts of escape as Bellatrix finishes lowering the zipper of his jeans and, without further ado, sticks her hand harshly inside his boxers, and squeezes.

Shit, he thinks with a start. This _is_ new. After all, with taunts, he can turn the other cheek; pain, he can tolerate; even torture, at its most relentless, is bearable to the trained or jaded mind.

But handjobs?

Well, fuck.

This is not on Harry's Be-Prepared-For list of shit Death Eaters tend to do. This isn't even on the list of shit that his girlfriends do. Harry hasn't even _had_ a girlfriend since that brief tryst with Ginny in Sixth Year that didn't go anywhere; and it goes to show, because the one part of his body that can decisively disagree with the rest of him is now in this bitch's hand, and curse his neglected libido, there's nothing he can do about the traitorous rush of blood to his groin, the swelling flesh under her fingers, the growing hardness against her palm.

This is stupid, he thinks, because this is about the most unappealing situation he could ever imagine himself being in, and there is no reason for the sharp hiss her strokes elicit from him, no excuse for the involuntary jerk of his hips into the touch. She smirks at him, knowingly, and continues the slow ministrations, her grip just tight enough to border on painful, with the occasional nip of her nails, a twist every now and again as Harry grits his teeth and keeps his eyes cast upwards; staring at the shadowy tent of the drapes above the bed helps, because he can't get lost, focusing on details—there _aren't_ any details—and he can keep searching the darkness for something, anything, anything at all that will keep his mind off how this complete bloody skank is massaging him into a full erection.

'Well, well, well,' she says silkily, leaning in close to his ear, her hand squeezing the base. 'What do you know?' _Stroke_. 'The Boy Who Lived—' _twist_, '—_has_ become a man.'

She keeps her face close to him after that; her profile invades the crook of his neck, laughing at him, hissing, biting, delightedly informing him of her nephew's supposedly superior manhood. Harry's eyes continue searching for any sort of solace or distraction, because he will not—he _will not_ give this bitch what she wants, even if it kills him.

He hears her _tsk _somewhere beside his jaw, and she stops her ministrations as she stands, and Harry thinks he doesn't want to know why she's standing up now, but can almost sense the inevitable as he hears the rustling of the fabric of her robes being hiked up around her waist; she crawls onto his lap, licking her lips in a very salacious manner. He vainly flexes his hands, and his wrists burn with a horrible sharpness as the raw skin there is smeared with ink, but the pain is a blessing, because it momentarily distracts him from the fact that she is impaling herself on him, and Harry briefly wonders if it's possible for the lower half of his body to be suffering a reluctant, obligatory pleasure while the rest of him wants to vomit.

He probably would vomit, if he hadn't earlier, under the effects of Malfoy's Cruciatus; no, there's nothing left in his stomach worth retching, but maybe if he tries hard enough, he can just throw up his stomach, and maybe that would be disgusting enough to get this immoral, vicious harpy off his lap. As she shifts, coming to a full rest on his hips, he finally looks down and meets her gaze; she's still laughing at him, taunting him with her eyes, with that smirk, knowing full well that he can't _not _feel it, can't force his hormones _not _to scream for it, and can't force his libido to hate it. He wants to rip her throat out with his teeth, and he just might have tried, but one of her hands comes up to grab him under the jaw, and holds his head back against the bedpost.

She smirks as she thrusts herself onto him again; pale eyes alight with malice and a deep, carnal pleasure in what she's taking from him, fingernails biting painfully into his throat. Harry holds her gaze, focusing on her dilated pupils, using the added pressure on his neck as an excuse to rotate his shoulders again—he can feel his arms slipping against one another, feel the rope sliding over one of the knob-like bones in his wrist—if he can just twist it a little further—pull a little harder—

She pushes onto him yet again, harder this time, and he lets out a grunt of satisfaction before he can stop himself. This—this isn't something he's suffered before—though 'suffer' isn't quite the right word, because it doesn't really hurt. If he's going to be honest, it feels the exact opposite of painful, but fuck, he still doesn't want it. Not now, not like this, not with this bitch on his lap—let her go and fuck her nephew—she isn't supposed to be taking this from him, because he can't deny how it feels, because this part of his body can ignore who she is, _what _she is. This part of his body can betray him and crave the pleasure that's mixed with the pain, the humiliation, the bloody shame the rest of him is bearing in spite of it. This is degradation he can't ignore. This he _has _to accept. She's forcing it on him for that very reason; she wants a reaction, any reaction, and this is how she is getting it. The look of sheer satisfaction on her face confirms it.

She leans back, one hand on his shoulder, nails digging into the flesh, the other on the mattress behind her, holding herself up as she rocks into him, slow and hard; curse his traitorous body, his hips thrust back, burying himself deeper into her, and it takes all of his physical self-control not to moan, because this feels entirely too good to be torture, and he fucking hates it all the more because of that. He hates that look of knowing smugness on her face as she sets the pace of their hips, one knee locked around the bedpost behind him, her other foot balanced on the floor, providing the leverage she's using to impale herself onto him.

Harry hates the fact that she can do this so easily, do it and enjoy it, and make him enjoy it when he hates it, when he wants nothing more than to hurt her in every sense of the word. Harry wanted to kill Snape for being a begrudging, unforgiving, heartless git to him every day of his seven years at school for absolutely no reason whatsoever; wanted to kill Sirius, when he thought he'd betrayed his parents; wanted to kill Wormtail, when he found it had been him; wanted to kill Voldemort just for existing, and making his entire life a living hell—but never, never in his whole life has he wanted to kill someone as badly as he wants to kill Bellatrix right now.

Against his bound wrists, he can feel the cold steel of the 9mm pressing into the small of his back. If he can get a hand loose... magic can stop a bullet, sure, but not at point blank range. Death Eaters hate Muggles, and hold their methods of execution in contempt, and because of this, they know little about hands-on murder, and this is their mistake, because the last thing they ever expect is for someone to pull a gun on them. That's why Harry's learned how to use a gun; he's ended up wandless thanks to an unfortunate Disarming spell often enough to know that it's always best to have a backup mode of defence. At long range, a gun would be useless against a witch or wizard, but this close...

Her hips have practically merged with his; involuntarily, he hates how good the tight, wet heat feels, almost as much as he hates that satisfied, vainglorious expression she's wearing, because at this point it's impossible to stop the moan from clawing its way out of his throat, hanging onto his tonsils because he does not want to allow her the triumph of forcing a reaction out of him. But it's as futile as the fight he's having with his hips to stop arching into her, as useless as the bid to ignore the knots in his abdomen that are tightening with every squeeze, clench and push of her hips. Sooner or later, Harry's mind and its inhibition are going to lose the battle with his body, which has natural predisposition on its side when it comes to sex. Sooner or later, she is going to take what she wants from him, and when she does she'll have done more damage to him than Malfoy or his father or Voldemort ever have or ever can.

The knots are begging, pleading with him now; withholding his own orgasm is becoming painful, like trying to hold in a piss when he's drank far too much and his bladder is screaming in panic. It is a sharp, nasty feeling and she keeps at him relentlessly, idle hands fondling, teeth snapping, tongue tracing—Harry's head drops forward as he grunts, and she probably thinks it's with pleasure, but it's from the rope cutting into his flesh as he throws his shoulders forward and the cord rips into the delicate skin on the underside of his wrists.

It's with her next thrust that he gets one wrist out. She's laughing openly now, and doesn't notice—he grits his teeth and twists his other wrist, using the ink as lubrication to wriggle it loose from the bonds, as his free hand searches the back of his jeans for the handle of the gun.

His fingers find the cold steel as she pushes onto him again, and his lack of concentration earns her a condensed moan, followed by a brief sob of frustration as he pulls the gun free, and throws her back onto the mattress, barrel at her throat and still inside of her. His other hand grabs her wand, still stowed behind her ear, and holds it down on the mattress above them both, as he supports himself over her.

Whether she's shocked by this or not, he doesn't get to see, because by now the lower half of him has won the argument, and it's with a sick twist of his stomach and eyes screwed shut in self-loathing that he thrusts into her once, twice, and a third, final time before the knot in his groin snaps and releases a tidal wave of tingling, sickening pleasure. He's dimly aware of a curse and gasp uttered beneath him, and he chokes on another sob that tries to overcome him, shame welling inside of him as he forces himself up and looks down on her smug, sneering face.

'Oh, what's the matter, Harry Potter?' she whispers at him, giggling, running a sharp nail along his abdomen, apparently unconcerned by the change of events. 'Was I your first?'

He holds her there, barrel of the gun still pressing into her throat, while he recovers, pulling out and kneeling above her.

'You may have been,' he says darkly, 'but I'll be your bloody last.'

His other hand takes her wand and lowers it down between her legs and, thrusting it inside of her, he utters the curse; one of those ancient, Dark spells one learns en route to becoming an Auror but is never, ever supposed to use, because they are just as bad as the Unforgivables—it's forbidden magic, worthy of a one-way ticket to Azkaban, and Harry doesn't care, because it's either this or kill her, and he's not lost quite enough of himself to do that.

No, not yet.

Her face barely has time to register shock and indignation at his words before the curse kicks in, and her expression twists as she shrieks at him, maybe in anger, maybe in pain. Probably both, he thinks, because it's bound to have hurt. He's just incinerated all of her reproductive organs, destroyed them with such Dark Magic that they'll be impossible to mend, unable to be exploited by her ever again.

There are tears in her eyes, but she isn't crying—no, she's furious, and he sneers down at her. 'Good luck explaining that to your loser husband,' he spits, moving the wand back to join the gun at her throat. 'Maybe he can make do with fucking your nephew, if he isn't already.'

'You little prick,' she snarls. 'Rot in hell.'

He thinks perhaps Stunning her is too kind—better than leaving her awake, though, or she might catch up with him too quickly. No, he intends to make it out of here alive, and less because he cares to live, but more for the fact that he knows what Voldemort will do to her, and to Malfoy, when he finds out that Harry Potter has escaped once again.

Harry sits up, casting his shadow over her and actually smirks as he trains the wand on her. 'I'll see you there.'


End file.
